Hercule Poirot's Christmas - Agatha Christie [70]
‘Oh, yes, that is a good idea.’
Pilar ran to the garden door, Stephen followed. Poirot came behind, still looking indulgent.
‘I will wish for a great deal of money,’ announced Pilar.
She stood on tiptoe, holding the string of the balloon. It tugged gently as a puff of wind came. Pilar let go and it floated along, taken by the breeze.
Stephen laughed.
‘You mustn’t tell your wish.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘Because it doesn’t come true. Now, I’m going to wish.’
He released his balloon. But he was not so lucky. It floated sideways, caught on a holly bush and expired with a bang.
Pilar ran to it.
She announced tragically:
‘It is gone…’
Then, as she stirred the little limp wisp of rubber with her toe, she said:
‘So that was what I picked up in Grandfather’s room. He, too, had had a balloon, only his was a pink one.’
Poirot gave a sharp exclamation. Pilar turned inquiringly.
Poirot said:
‘It is nothing. I stabbed—no stubbed—the toe.’
He wheeled round and looked at the house.
He said:
‘So many windows! A house, mademoiselle, has its eyes—and its ears. It is indeed regrettable that the English are so fond of open windows.’
Lydia came out on the terrace. She said:
‘Lunch is just ready. Pilar, my dear, everything has been settled quite satisfactorily. Alfred will explain the exact details to you after lunch. Shall we come in?’
They went into the house. Poirot came last. He was looking grave.
III
Lunch was over.
As they came out of the dining-room, Alfred said to Pilar:
‘Will you come into my room? There is something I want to talk over with you.’
He led her across the hall and into his study, shutting the door after him. The others went on into the drawing-room. Only Hercule Poirot remained in the hall looking thoughtfully at the closed study door.
He was aware suddenly of the old butler hovering uneasily near him.
Poirot said: ‘Yes, Tressilian, what is it?’
The old man seemed troubled. He said:
‘I wanted to speak to Mr Lee. But I don’t like to disturb him now.’
Poirot said: ‘Something has occurred?’
Tressilian said slowly:
‘It’s such a queer thing. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Tell me,’ said Hercule Poirot.
Tressilian hesitated. Then he said:
‘Well, it’s this, sir. You may have noticed that each side of the front door there was a cannon ball. Big heavy stone things. Well, sir, one of them’s gone.’
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He said; ‘Since when?’
‘They were both there this morning, sir. I’ll take my oath on that.’
‘Let me see.’
Together they went outside the front door. Poirot bent and examined the remaining cannon ball. When he straightened himself, his face was very grave.
Tressilian quavered:
‘Who’d want to steal a thing like that, sir? It doesn’t make sense.’
Poirot said: ‘I do not like it. I do not like it at all…’
Tressilian was watching him anxiously. He said slowly:
‘What’s come to the house, sir? Ever since the master was murdered it doesn’t seem like the same place. I feel the whole time as though I was going about in a dream. I mix things up, and I sometimes feel I can’t trust my own eyes.’
Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:
‘You are wrong. Your own eyes are just what you must trust.’
Tressilian said, shaking his head:
‘My sight’s bad—I can’t see like I used to do. I get things mixed up—and people. I’m getting too old for my work.’
Hercule Poirot clapped him on the shoulder and said:
‘Courage.’
‘Thank you, sir. You mean it kindly, I know. But there it is, I am too old. I’m always going back to the old days and the old faces. Miss Jenny and Master David and Master Alfred. I’m always seeing them as young gentlemen and ladies. Ever since that night when Mr Harry came home—’
Poirot nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is what I thought. You said just now “Ever since the master was murdered”—but it began before that. It is ever since Mr Harry came home, is it not, that things have altered and seemed unreal?’
The butler said:
‘You’re quite right,